I am green and fresh as a song through the grass,
I am deep and soft as the nest of a bird.
I'm from days long past,
from a forest, where I learned to breathe,
from the languor of lovers asleep in the grass.

I'm from there—
the village of small winds.
On a far hill there was a windmill,
and the sky hung on its wing
clouds mingled with smoke.
The wind comes and the wind goes.
I'm from the land that taps with wooden spoons
—from there.


Windmill, O windmill,
on what shore did the gulls call
the name of my dead country?
Windmill, O windmill.

Along which street did the travelers pass,
sensing the sunset's kingdom
against their backs,
though they didn't turn their heads?
And the wings whirled in the wind.

is the garden
red with autumn
that covered its shadows,
hid twilight in its leaves
and let the breeze pass through?

The wind called with the gull
the name of my dead country—
and here am I, silent and free,
windmill, O windmill!


I was yours, land of low winds,
my heart carries each drop of your rain.
Stumbling, I'll bring—
no angel will help me—
mushrooms from your woods
to the kingdom of heaven.

In my kingdom of heaven,
they still remember your feast.
A cheerful harmonica plays the Song of the Dead.
One star is tangled in the windmill,
turning round, turning round—
but I'm already old and gray, and no one will dance with me.

Still, the gate is open, so I'll join the feast,
unlace my shoes and sit in the shade.
My face will gently flow down the faltering stream,

my face from the shore
of your river—
bright when I remember—
windmill, O windmill.